Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak was a book that I read to my daughter, Jennifer, in the early ‘80s. The book was adapted to film and released in October 2009, the same month my granddaughter, Jane, entered the world. She was born with congenital heart defects, conditions that no one knew about during Jennifer’s pregnancy.
About a week and a half after Jane was born she was temporarily discharged home. Jennifer and I had plans to see Where The Wild Things Are long before we knew about Jane’s health problems. We were able to see it together. Jane was at home sleeping, tucked away in her bassinet, Daddy nearby.
The book has 21 pages of text. The movie expounded upon Sendak’s humongous creatures and Max’s imagination. All at once my role as mother, grandmother, and the memories of being a little girl with a big imagination played throughout the film. As an occupational therapist who works in mental health, I thought the wild things had issues, such as depression and anger management problems, just like adults. The uncertainty of Jane’s health made me want to roar a terrible roar.
When Jane was old enough, I read the book to her. I look forward to watching the film with her someday, maybe starting a wild rumpus, too.